


Anchor

by excandescent



Category: DBSK|Tohoshinki|TVXQ
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excandescent/pseuds/excandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yunho struggles with being the leader of two, but he knows he can rely on Changmin to start over again. Together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spellonyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellonyou/gifts).



> originally posted as _rocketsprout_

South Korea in winter is  _cold_. A bitter wind blowing in from the Eastern Sea brings with it snow and ice, covering the tiny peninsula-bound country under a thick blanket of white. You're cold too. The frigid air whispers around you, makes mockery of your attempts at keeping warm and taunts you with icy fingers that creep along your skin, leaving nothing but goosebumps in their wake. You stamp your feet, kicking away clumps of snow that cling resentfully to your boots and burrow deep into the treads. The bus is late.

He was the one who had suggested it. A trip home to visit family and old hometown friends. You had feigned enthusiasm for the idea, had bid him a farewell with a wide smile that slipped off your face when he turned away. It had been nice for a short time. To see your father, to have your sister fuss over you, to eat your mother's cooking again. But what they really wanted to ask had remained unspoken, hanging in the air as sharp and precise as icicles.  _How are you doing? Do you want to talk about it?_  They hadn't asked, and you hadn't answered and at some point along the way the pleasantries had trailed off and you had stuttered into awkward, uncomfortable silence.

The bus journey back to Seoul takes twice as long as it should, slowed and hampered by snow and speed restrictions and the recklessness of others. The mutters and complaints of your fellow passengers is a distant background drone that you block off in favour of staring sightlessly out the window at the passing scenery.

White.

So white it almost glows with its own light, pure and cold. Sounds muffled against the steady, cotton soft fall of snowflakes as it mounds and heaps across the landscape, disguising and covering everything with a picture perfect monotony. The bus rumbles on towards its destination.

It is well after dark when you arrive back at the bus terminal. Seoul is the same as always, a cacophony of bright lights and sound and rushing that you never  _quite_  become used to. The snow here is crushed to dirty slush, brown and soiled and piled against buildings and curbs. For some reason you pity it. In the car park your manager is waiting for you, grumbling to himself about the cold and the weather. You use the scarf wrapped tightly around your lower face as an excuse not to speak and the trip back to the apartment is narrated only by the radio. He drops you off outside with a nod and a wave, and pulls away to weave once more into the Seoul traffic. You watch until it disappears into the rest of the traffic, lost in a sea of glaring lights.

The apartment is dark when you enter it, a facade of habitation provided only by the timed heating that moves the temperature marginally above freezing. It feels emptier than it is, now nothing but a suffocating shell holding memories. It takes a moment before you recognise the buzzing in your back pocket as your phone and you fumble it out with still gloved hands. Your voice is croaky and rough from disuse as you glance at the screen and answer. His voice on the other end is not, soft and languid as always. In the background you can hear the sounds of muffled conversation and intermittent laughter.  _Happiness,_  your heart supplies unhelpfully.

_"Hyung, are you back in Seoul yet?"_

You have to clear your throat before you speak. "Ah yeah, I just got back."

_"Have you eaten? Umma asks if you want to come over, we're just about to have dinner."_

You pick up your bag again and pull the door closed behind you, locking the dark and the memories away again. Outside you wait for a taxi to pull over. It isn't quite as cold any more.

 

 

 

Snow turns into rain and roads turn into rivers. Life continues onwards. Your new apartment is smaller, the perfect size for two even though you still feel awkward in it. It doesn't quite fit yet, like a new shoe not yet stretched. But in time, you think it will.

Your days are empty now. It is a far cry from before, and you spend it travelling. Long trips to nowhere in particular, subway journeys with no other company than a bottle of water and the nameless citizens around you. None of them recognise you. Somehow, you find it soothing. He is busy with his own schedules. There are photoshoots and interviews in Japan, school classes and acting classes, and at night you can hear him in his room rehearsing a drama script. It makes you proud in a bittersweet way.

Overcast skies and an empty apartment greet you one morning, and you decide to stay in. By early afternoon it is raining steadily, and you are thankful to have made one right decision. The book you were reading is set aside and you sit cross legged against the sofa to watch the storm. Heavy clouds, dark and oppressive, march across the sky like an invading army. You sit and watch, fascinated by the shifting colours and patterns as the clouds filter the distant sunlight and paint the city in sepia tones.

The day passes and sepia fades to black highlighted by a thousand diamonds as lights flicker on and shimmer through the rain, reflecting and refracting through the raindrops that fall in steady rivulets down the plate glass. A hundred thousand cities captured in miniature. Lightning flashes against the horizon and the sound of thunder is muted.

He finds you still there. The open door casts a long beam of shadow and light across the wooden floor, and sets the raindrops dancing with a hundred thousand orange highlights. He sees you there but doesn't say anything, and you watch him through the glass as he drops his bag and walks into the kitchen. High pitched hissing follows and you recognise the sound of the kettle boiling before he joins you and wordlessly hands you a hot mug. You sniff at it and recognise the aroma of hot chocolate. He lowers himself to the floor next to you and stretches long legs out.

The silence between you is companionable; comfortable and peaceful. The sound of his breath melds into your own and into the sounds of the apartment around you. The hum of the refrigerator. The rumble of the elevator. Together you watch the storm as it moves away over the city. The lightning and thunder is less frequent now, the storm calming, its power and fury already spent.

"We made the right decision, hyung."

His words cut directly to the root of your insecurities, those tangled vines that wrap themselves around your heart and pierce it with bitter thorns. Your voice catches shamefully in your throat when you try and respond. It takes a deep breath before you manage to get the words out without choking.

"Did we?"

The hand that captures yours is reassuring and firm, with a steady heartbeat you can feel through your own palm. It's warmer than the hot chocolate resting in your lap.

"Yes."

For a long time you sit like that, his pulse beating in time with your own and you let yourself steal his warmth.

 

 

 

The rhythmic  _thump-thump-thump_  of a young boy kicking a football around is the only sound to disturb the quiet as you sit with your hands stuffed inside the pockets of your hoodie. You lean your head back, letting the thin sunlight beat down onto your closed eyelids. The  _thump_ _s_ stop and a soft cry of anguish makes you open your eyes and twist your head uncomfortably in his direction. The boy stands in front of a tree and up in the branches sits his ball. You watch as the boy jumps, but his fingertips fall a few inches short.

You stand and walk over. Your height makes it easy to reach up and pluck it free. He watches you with timid eyes and twists the hem of his jacket anxiously. You crouch in front of him and hand the ball back. "There you go. Don't worry, it's not damaged." You make small talk with him until some masochistic part of yourself urges you to ask, "Who is your favourite group?"

The kid puffs his cheeks out. "Uhn, I really like SNSD."

"What about Dong Bang Shin Ki?"

The kid clutches his ball closer and scrunches his face up as he thinks. "I dun know who dey are," he replies in utter innocence and the words tear at your heart. You hide it behind a bright smile that clings awkwardly to your face and ruffle the young boy's hair. "Don't worry about it," you tell him. "Go on home to your umma before she starts worrying about you."

The boy nods and sprints off towards the gate. Halfway there he stops and turns towards you. He waves and shouts back to you, "Thank you for getting my ball." You raise an arm and then drop it. The boy is already gone.

You arrive home and follow your nose towards the kitchen. He is already there, and you lean against the counter to watch as he slices spring onions and throws them into a pot. You take a deep breath and the smell of instant ramyeon hits your nostrils. He knows you're back. Those large brown eyes of his flick towards you and silently acknowledge you before returning to the pot.

"It's not instant," he says in greeting, and you don't hold back your grin.

"It comes from a packet, it's  _instant_ ," you insist again.

"I've been cooking it for twenty minutes, it's  _not_  instant."

"Fine, fine, whatever you say." It's an old disagreement that comes up every time he cooks, the back and forth banter teasing and light hearted. You straighten and move to get out bowls and cutlery. It's already long decided that you only use the chipped ones. He places the two steaming bowls on opposite sides of the dining table and you take your seats. It looks good, and smells better, and you offer thanks that he shrugs off.

You begin eating. It tastes good, even if the seasoning does come from a packet. Three mouthfuls in and you feel your hunger fade, replaced by a nagging sense of  _something important_  that you need to tell him. You look down at your bowl, then across the table at him and back down. The chair scrapes roughly against the floor as you shift in your seat.

"Hyung, I can hear your brain rattling from here and it's disturbing my meal."

"Sorry," you say instantly and fidget some more. He waits, blowing on his noodles before sucking them into his mouth. He knows you well enough that all he has to do is wait. The words, when they come, explode out of you.

"I want to... to continue Dong Bang Shin Ki."

He nods thoughtfully, chewing first on his noodles and then on his bottom lip. You wait nervously.

"We should speak to the company in the morning."

You want to throw yourself over the table and hug him to you, but you can't. You know he wouldn't appreciate it, and neither would the two bowls of ramyeon. Instead you stretch a hand out across the table towards him. He eyes it for three long seconds before stretching his own across to meet yours. You can feel your hunger return and you eagerly scoop up more noodles.

 

 

 

You wish you knew how this would turn out. What the end result would be. How the fans would receive you. But you don't. You can't. All you can do is put your best efforts in and hope they still love you and your music enough to accept Dong Bang Shin Ki as a duo. You still don't know if what you have chosen is right but you trust in your judgement and in his.

He doesn't know either. You can see it in his eyes during yet another meeting with yet another executive who talks on and on about concepts and promotional strategies. You lean in instinctively towards his body heat. It reassures you to know you have him here beside you. Even though neither of you know where the path you are on will lead, with him beside you you feel you can take any challenge that comes.

The day you first walk into the recording studio again feels a lot like coming home.

He is beside you when you greet the producers and recording engineers again, remembering names and faces of those you've worked with before. You can see it in their eyes when they think you are turned away.  _Can they do it? Will they fall?_  You put a brave face on again and pretend to not notice. But he can see through your mask and he is there with a cup of coffee in a styrofoam cup and a warm hand on your shoulder that you notice only by the imprint of heat it leaves against you.

Endless months worth of vocal coaching had become your routine and you practise until your throat feels like bleeding. Now here you stand alone, alone with oversized headphones in a sound proofed room and sing, sing, sing. It's familiar and in that familiarity lies routine and strength. He watches you through the glass screen and you see him tapping along with the beat, a barely there smile you can see only in his eyes. Yes, this is the right path.

 _We want you to re-record Maximum_ , they announce one day and you brace yourself.

The first time you sit down to listen to those old recordings you expect to feel old anger and betrayal and you do. It surprises you just how much. You turn it off and leave. They say time is a great healer but really you think that humans just forget how painful something is, the sharp edges of it worn away by the flow of time and everyday life until something comes along to remind you.

"Can we really do this?" you ask him late one night. He shrugs. You only realise you are pouting when he smirks at you in that way of his. "I don't know if I can do this," you whisper quietly. But you know he hears it. "What if they don't like us?"

"Hyung, we can't control their response to us. We do our best and show them that Dong Bang Shin Ki is still here. If they don't like us, then so what? Their love wasn't genuine to begin with. And we keep trying." This is why you are glad he stayed with you. He isn't one for meaningless platitudes and his words are blunt but chosen with care. Somehow his thoughtful presence is more than enough to reassure you.

The next time you try and listen to them you expect those feelings again and it surprises you when they don't come. Instead you find yourself with an immense nostalgia tinged with sadness and perhaps a bit of bitterness. Past memories can be kept and treasured for what they were and what they meant but you realise that to cling on to them is foolishness. Those times have already passed and now the future beckons you forward. Memories once edged in razor sharp pain somehow lose their relevance, their colour. They are no longer fresh and stark but faded and frayed around the edges.

And so you record the song once again, this time as two.

He sits beside you when you listen to the finalised version for the first time. You don't ask his opinion and he doesn't give it. Instead you look across at him and he looks back and you nod. You both know it is good.

You only hope it will be good enough.

 

 

 

When the company first announced your comeback, you had anticipated the hate. You had anticipated all their arguments. You had lain in bed for too many sleepless nights yourself going through the very same thing. But Dong Bang Shin Ki is  _more_  than just the name,  _more_  than just the members. You wish you could explain it to people but you know they won't listen. So you keep your words to yourself and funnel your energies in to preparing. It's all you can do.

There are too many long nights where both of you stay late practising choreography. Too many nights when you return home to your apartment and collapse against each other on the sofa, too tired to make it the extra steps to your separate rooms. Still neither of you would have it any other way. The stage is where you belong, where  _both_  of you belong. Together.

The comeback date draws closer, what was originally months turns into weeks and days and hours. And then from that day you announced to the company that you both wanted to continue you find yourself standing here, about to walk on stage again. A stylist fusses around you, straightening hems and teasing a few stray strands of hair back into position because  _nothing can go wrong here_. Or everything can.

You are wise to the ways of the industry now and seven years worth of experience has seen you grow from optimistic youths into cautiously determined men. But seven years worth of baggage brings its own perils and you worry whether it will be enough to see you sink.

The music begins and you move with it under the spotlight, flowing through the routine. Experience is the only thing that saves you and you trust your body to move, mind ruthlessly barricaded. It gets you through and you step away to let him take the stage. His body moves lithely, with a smoothness gained only through hard practise and effort. Every time you see him like this he amazes you with how much he has grown from the shy, awkward boy you first knew. It fills you with pride just to know him. You move back on stage, circling each other like two predators and step forward to face him, hands rising together with the beats of the music. Up, down, and you clasp each other's hand like a lifeline. His gaze meets yours.

You see him swallow, the wide eyes that meet yours still carrying that shadow of fear, of doubt that you know is just a reflection of what he sees in yours. You don't know how long you can carry on or how far you can go but you know that as long as you are with him and he is with you, you want to try.

His hand is warm, and so is yours.

_Begin._


End file.
